Crackback (10 page)

Easy Rest Mattress, like me, is sleepy Sunday morning. I unlock the door, turn on the lights, and wake the store. I check the computer to see what Zach sold yesterday. No customers yet, so I can make some phone calls.

I dial Lucia's phone. No answer, but I like hearing her voice on the message. I try the number at her dad's.

“Hello,” a man with a deep voice answers.

“Is Lucia there?”

“No, she's at yoga. Can I tell her who's calling?”

“Manning. Miles. No, Miles Manning. Please tell her I'll call back this afternoon.”

“Okay, I'll give her the message.”

Lucia's dad sounds nice. If someone messed up his name when he called our house, Dad would be all over him. “What? You don't know your own name? Call back when you figure out who you are.”

The bell rings and an after-church couple comes in. The man is bald with a round face, and her face matches his. I explain the difference in firmness based on coil counts and layers in the mattress. They know they want something that will last a long time, so I sell them our top-of-the-line king-size set. Good way to start the day.

The man reminds me of someone else I need to call. I page through the book and find Joseph Sepolski. No “Coach,” just Joseph Sepolski. That doesn't look right.

“Coach, this is Miles Manning.”

“Hey, Miles.” His voice sounds raspy.

“How are you doing, Coach?”

“All right. I'm off the smokes. The doctor likes that. They've got me on radiation treatments. Hormone therapy after that. Estrogen. I may start wearing a dress and high heels.” Sepolski coughs. “How about you, Miles? How are you doing?”

“Okay,” I lie.

Coach knows too much to let that slide. “How's it really going?”

“Coach Stahl's made changes. I'm not starting.”

“I heard.” Sepolski clears his throat. “You're a good football player, Miles. Be ready. You'll get another shot.”

“Thanks, Coach.” That's the kind of guy Sepolski is. I call him to see how he's doing, and he ends up making me feel better.

“We miss you, Coach.”

“I miss you guys, too.”

“Good luck with the treatment.”

“Thanks, Miles.”

I check the production list to see what to make—an eighty-two queen mattress. I throw an innerspring on the table, pull a piece of Typar, and tuck it into the corners.
Chunnc, chunnc,
the hog ringer blasts staples that catch the coils. I add a foam topper, a cotton batt, and convoluted foam. I pull the cover over the top.
Chunnc,
the gun blasts a staple into the corner coil. Grab, hold,
chunnc,
grab, hold,
chunnc,
I work my way around what's beginning to look like a mattress. I flip it over to start on the other side.

If Sepolski were coach, I'd still be starting. Zach and I would be the corners. If Sepolski were coach, Zach might not have gone hard-core on steroids. Maybe Sepolski would have said something to make Zach think. Maybe not.

Chunnc.
A searing pain shoots through my left finger. I lift my hand and the whole unit comes with it. I've stapled myself to the mattress.

Don't panic.
I try to pull my finger away from the coil, but the pain is intense. The hog ring is locked tight.
Don't panic.

Where's the wire cutter? I slide the mattress to the next table using my right arm. The wire cutter isn't on the tool bench. Who didn't put it back? Zach. I'll kill him.
Don't panic.

Where the hell is the wire cutter? I slide the mattress back to the first table and lift up the foam. Pliers, but no wire cutter.
Don't panic.

I bend down to see how the hog ring goes into my finger. Right through the tip with the staple wrapped tight to the coil. I twist the pliers. The pain shoots down my finger. Damn. I need a wire cutter.
Don't panic.

What should I do? I can't stand here. I've got to get help. The phone's on the other side of the room, but I've got no choice. I slide the mattress off the table with my free arm and lean it onto the floor. The staple pulls against my skin. Slowly, I lift the mattress from the table and stand it on end.

I push the mattress along the concrete. That hurts. I kick the garbage can out of the way, so I can pull the mattress against the wall to reach the phone.

On the third ring, Dad answers, “Yeah.”

“Dad, I've had an accident at work. I stapled my finger to a mattress.”

“Well, unstaple it.”

“I can't find a wire cutter. Can you bring one?”

“You should always know where your tools are,” Dad says. “I'll be over.”

I wish I hadn't had to call but feel relieved Dad's on his way. What if Mr. Hurst, the manager, shows up for one
of his surprise visits? I'd be fired on the spot. The pain in my finger feels worse.

The front bell rings. That's too fast for Dad. A lady looks around. I wave and she waves back. I'm sure she wonders why I'm not coming out.

She waves again and I gesture for her to come back. She opens the door of the factory cautiously.

“I'm sorry. There's been an accident.” I point to the coil. “I stapled myself to the mattress.”

“Oh dear, you're being brave.” She clasps her hands together.

Brave. Stupid is more like it. I reposition the mattress to take some pressure off my finger.

“How can I help?” she asks.

“You don't have a wire cutter, do you?”

She digs through her purse as if there's a chance. “Lots of junk in here,” she says, “but no wire cutter.”

“My dad's on his way. He'll bring one. Can you sit up front and tell anybody who comes in that the store's closed temporarily? Tell them to come back in half an hour.”

“I'd be happy to do that.”

Next time the doorbell rings, it's Dad. He says something to the lady and she laughs. Probably something about his son being a complete idiot.

Dad bursts through the factory door. “What did you do that for?” He examines my finger to see how it's attached to the coil.

“Sorry.”

Dad positions his orange-handled wire cutter and makes one strong squeeze. My hand pops free. Two metal points stick out of my finger, but there's no blood. “You got a first-aid kit?”

“Yeah.” I point to the blue box on the wall.

Dad takes out disinfectant, gauze, and a Band-Aid. “Let me see.” He holds my finger in his hand and pulls the points out. He applies disinfectant and wraps a Band-Aid tightly.

“Thanks.”

“You had a tetanus shot lately?” Dad hands me the points.

“Yeah, last year after I cut my arm at the barn.”

“Okay. Get back to work. You better help that lady.”

“I will. Thanks, Dad.”

“One more tip. Watch what you're doing.”

Sunday night, I remember my homework for Halloran's class. I find Dad in the basement emptying the dehumidifier. “I've got a few questions for my family tree project.” I take out my notebook.

“We're not like your mother's family. We don't call attention to ourselves by putting up a Web site for everyone in the world to see. We protect our privacy.”

I hadn't asked about that. “Can we start with your grandparents?”

“I've got what you need in my head.” Dad bends down to replace the container, and the dehumidifier hums on. He gives me the Irish names and dates for two generations. It's not as detailed as Drew's information, but it'll be fine for class.

“What about your immediate family?” The boxes at the bottom of my page are empty.

Dad rubs the stubble on his cheek. “My dad died when I was twenty-five. My mother died when I was thirteen.” Dad says this in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he's repeating a script.

Thirteen. Three years younger than I am. Imagine if Mom died and left me and Martha with Dad. I remember Mom saying Dad's father was difficult. I'd like to ask Dad about this, but I don't think he'd want to talk about it. He slams an empty tube of caulk out of the gun.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“One last question, your brother?” I know Dad doesn't see him, and I can't remember meeting him.

“What about him?”

“His age? Where he lives?”

“Shawn's two years older than me. He was fifteen when Mom died. He and Dad had some major fights. Last I heard, he was down in Belize. Says he's a scuba instructor. That means he hangs out on the beach and smokes dope.”

Dad grabs the gun and a new tube of caulk. “I've got to finish that shower.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Yup.” He clomps up the steps.

Dad doesn't talk to his own brother, and both his parents are dead. Is that why he resents Mom's family? Is he jealous that she and Drew get along and that Mom still has a mother to talk to?

I feel my finger throbbing. I need more Tylenol.

Later, I think about Dad as I lie in bed. He's impossible to figure out. I wanted to ask him what he and Mom were arguing about last night. But he would have bitten my head off and told me to mind my own damn business.

Then I remember talking to Lucia's dad. I never called her back. What if she hung around waiting? How could I forget to call Lucia?

Blue and white homecoming signs decorate the school. Each one is a reminder. I don't start. I don't play. And I'm not going to the dance.

I try to catch Lucia's eye in Halloran's class, but she's talking with Dylan Hines. Dylan's the starting shooting guard on the basketball team, and he's smooth around girls.

“A family tree is another way to see who you are,” Halloran says. “Pick a partner and discuss the branches of your family. Also, discuss how you see yourself in relationship to these branches. Are you more like your mother's side, your father's side, a blend of the two, or neither?”

Kids slide their chairs and I go to Lucia. “Can I be your partner?”

“Dylan already asked.” Lucia turns her chair and I look at her back. I should have called her.

“Miles, do you have a partner?” Halloran asks.

“No.”

“Charlie needs one.”

Charlie Dunston hasn't finished his assignment. “I asked my mom and dad, but they both had to work last night,” he says.

I show Charlie my family tree, but I'm concentrating on Lucia and Dylan. Already Lucia's laughing at his jokes. I tell Charlie I'm more like my mom's side. Most of the time.

At lunch I sit next to Strangler. He's not going to the dance either. “Let's do something fun,” he says. “Anyway, who wants to dress up in a suit and stand around at a boring dance?”

“Lots of people,” I say.

The cheerleaders have arranged all kinds of lame dress-up days for homecoming week: favorite TV character, punk rock, goofy hair, mismatch, and blue and white. The only activity that's worth anything is the burping contest. Jonesy cuts loose with superstar belches and wins in a landslide.

I sit next to Sam in the locker room Friday. I've already participated in part of his pregame ritual—two Tostada Supremes at Taco King. “Gotta have fuel for listening to inspirational speeches,” Sam says. From the smell, some of that fuel's turned to gas.

Zach's dressing next to Tyson across the room. Putting on pads knowing I'm not playing is like getting dressed for a party I'm not going to. When I was a starter, I reviewed my assignments and visualized playing well.
Now, Sam's pushing me to put on my pants two legs at a time.

“I don't want to. It doesn't make sense.”

“Just like Coach's speeches. Put your pants on this way, you'll stay in sync. Try it.”

I lay my pants on the floor and slide them up, both legs together.

“Perfecto,” Sam says. On the other side of the room, Zach shakes his head.

During the game, cheerleaders yell behind us:

F,
clap, clap,
I, G, H, T.

F,
clap, clap,
I, G, H, T.

FIGHT, FIGHT, let's FIGHT.

Spelling is very important for a Confluence cheerleader.

Stahl paces the sideline in shorts, even though it's forty-five degrees. This shows how tough he is. “It's our homecoming, men. This is our house. Show Concord how we protect it.”

The defense gets frustrated with the offense, and guys blame each other. Baker makes two bad plays in a row, but Stahl doesn't chew him out. Maybe he's got nobody to put in. Nobody but me.

“You should replace Candlestick Maker,” Sam says.

“I know.” I want to hit somebody.

Tyson throws an elbow pad down. “We're playing like a bunch of fags.”

Would he talk that way if he had an uncle like Drew?

“We're better than this,” Zach shouts. “Kick some ass.”

We lose 24-6, but it doesn't feel that close. We're three and two. Hard to believe we started the season talking about going to State.

The night of the dance, Strangler and I are bored out of our minds by 7:00.

“I've got an idea. Let's go shining.”

“What's that?” Strangler sits up.

“Shining. You've never been shining?” I act like I'm an expert.

After finding flashlights at Strangler's house, we drive to Oxbow Lake. A full moon is up and it feels good to get out of town. I explain shining to Strangler as we drive through the park.

“There's a parker.” We circle around, leave the car, and sneak through the woods.

We jump out and shine our lights. A couple with messed-up hair rises from the backseat and blinks at the light. They look like college students. She looks surprised, like she can't believe we're doing this. He looks angry.

“Run,” I tell Strangler, but he's halfway down the road. He's in shape from getting ready for hoops. I chase after him.

It's strange doing this without Sam, Cooper, and Toilet. The jokes and songs were what made it fun. As we walk to the second spot, Strangler tells me about the basketball team.

“How's Dylan?”

“He looks good. He's going to have a big year.”

That's not what I want to hear.

A pickup is parked at the overlook. Strangler and I duck behind some trees and get our flashlights ready. A pinecone crunches as we creep in front of the truck. As soon as we shine our lights, a door slams and a guy jumps out.

“Run.”

We run down the road, but the guy's right behind. I cut into the woods, but he's fast. Branches crack as he chases me.
Run
. I duck under some pine boughs, but he's still coming.
Run
. I splash into a creek and up the other side.
Run
. I loop back to the beach, but he's still there. Maybe I should dive in and swim for the other side. It would be cold, but he wouldn't follow me.

Underneath a light pole, I'm jerked back by a pull on my collar. I stumble as fists hit my chest, stomach, and
face. I put my hands up to protect myself, but the guy punches like a madman. “Okay, okay,” I say.

“It's not okay. You—dirty—little—” He slugs me for each word.

“I've never done it before,” I lie.

“You won't do it again.” The guy's big and has a goatee. He holds his right fist in front of my face. The letters T I M E are tattooed on his fingers. He smells like he's been drinking. T I M E smashes into my face. My legs wobble, and I drop to my knees.

He lifts me up by my hair. “You've got someone to apologize to.” He pushes me in the back, and I stagger along the road.

Where the hell is Strangler? Why didn't he help? I wipe my nose with my hand and see blood mixed with snot. What am I doing here? I should have asked someone else to the dance. That's where I should be, not in the park getting beat up.

A girl with long blond hair is sitting in the truck. She rubs her eyes like she's been crying. “This lowlife has something to tell you,” Goatee says.

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Goatee growls.

“Sorry for bothering you, for shining flashlights, for harassing you, for interrupting your evening.” I try to think
of anything else I can apologize for. “I'm sorry for being such a loser.”

“Tell your friend,” Goatee says, “that if you two try that again, I'll beat you so badly, you'll piss blood.” He drags me to the back of his truck and reaches in for some orange twine. He pulls my arms behind my back so hard they feel like they're popping. He ties them tightly and leads me to the rock ledge. “You're pathetic,” he says, and pushes me off.

One thought flashes in my mind:
If I land on the rocks, I'm dead.
I look down and see black water. I arch my back to protect my face and go under. The water's cold and I can't see anything. I kick wildly. I need air.

I burst through the surface gasping for breath. My nose hurts when I breathe. I'm farther from shore than I expected. I lean forward but can't move. I flip onto my back and kick. It's slow going with my hands tied, and I'm shivering with each breath. I've got to get out. Kick harder.

On shore, I scramble onto the rocks. I slip and fall and rip my pants. I'm shaking. I've got to move to warm up. I run around the ledge to avoid Goatee. What hurts most: ribs, stomach, face, nose, hands, knee. No, what hurts most is that I let him beat me up. I didn't fight back.

Strangler's waiting at the car. “Where the hell were you?” I ask. “Untie my hands.”

“I ran the other way.” Strangler works on the knot while I shiver. “Hold still. I've almost got it.”

I've never broken my nose before, and getting it fixed is no fun. Gauze gets jammed up my nostrils; cartilage gets shoved and twisted. I can hardly breathe. Then the doctor says, “I've done the best I can, but I'm afraid your nose won't look exactly the same.”

My nose wasn't that great before. Now I expect it will be a real beauty.

But all of this is minor compared with listening to Dad. “I don't know why the hell you were in that park at that hour. Strang never had any sense, but what were you doing? If you were sneaking up on guys and their girlfriends, you deserve a busted nose.”

How does he know everything?